Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Pipes, bags and a windshield came in under a grand—what Harley Davidson wanted
eighteen hundred for, not counting the taillight and installation.
Perception wobbled for another week of pro and con—on the one hand, but on the other
hand. I studied the map for easy outs and shortcuts home, till things solidified on another
phone call.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Oh, hey. I'm just sitting here. What are you doing?”
“Do you remember driving me to the airport and giving me five hundred dollars to use
for emergency?”
“Yeah. You used that money to buy that
thing
.”
“What thing?”
“That motorcycle.”
“Very good. You're not senile. Do you realize what time it is?”
“You mean here or there?”
“That was forty years ago.”
“No it wasn't.”
“Yes it was. I need another five hundred.”
“You're not.”
“I think I am.”
“You said you were done with that.”
“I thought I was, like you thought you were done after your second marriage.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I'm not playing games here.”
“Oh. Well, anyway. I'm going again.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“Of course you do. You wish I was at your place, sitting on the couch watching TV and
eating two-handed. Playing it safe.”
“What's wrong with that?”
“It would be more dangerous than a motorcycle trip.”
“I don't know how you can say that.”
“Because I would have hung myself by now.”
She laughed. Old mom had turned ninety-one—a hundred fifty-two in kilometers—but
she could still parry and thrust. “You said you weren't going. It's dangerous, and in case you
haven't noticed, you're not as young as you used to be.”
“Yes I am. You're older. Not me.”
“Have it your way.”
“Thank you. I think I will.”
